


Backseat Driver

by jdrush



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humour, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-31 22:56:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20248006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdrush/pseuds/jdrush
Summary: You can’t do THIS on public transportation!





	Backseat Driver

**Author's Note:**

> PAIRING: Sherlock/John  
RATING: PWP NC-17  
SPOILERS: itty bitty bits from “aSiP”  
DISCLAIMER: Characters still belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC1, and Moffat and Gatiss, though I doubt they’ll want them back after this. Dahlia belongs to me. . .oh, hell. . .Dahlia IS me!  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Completely unrealistic, but then again, isn’t that what fanfic is all about? This one is just for fun. No betas were hurt in the production of this story.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES PART 2: I'm slowly uploading some of my old fanfics to the archive. This one was first posted to my Live Journal July, 2011.

Case Closed.

Two of the most gratifying words in the English language. Or, at least, John Watson thought so. Sherlock Holmes. . .not so much. If he had his way, the case--the puzzle--would never end.

But, for now the case was closed, and John was flying high.

The killer had been caught after a scuffle with the great detective and a vigorous leg chase through the back alleys of rainy Soho. A well-aimed shot from John’s trusty army pistol had finally ended the pursuit--a clean in-and-out through the right thigh. Nothing life threatening, but it had certainly slowed the man down.

The gun rested in John’s coat pocket. It was quiet now, but John swore he could still feel the heated metal through the layers of fabric. Sherlock had admonished him, noting that one day Lestrade was going to piece all these random, lucky shots together--he wasn’t a total idiot after all.

But as has been noted, the case was now closed, the criminal was in custody, and they could all congratulate themselves on another job well done.

Riding in a cab back to the flat, however, John was still drunk on all the excitement. Heart pumping, adrenaline surging. Dear God, there was nothing like the thrill of the chase! No, that wasn’t exactly true. There were the times after the chase. Once the front door to their flat had been locked. Just the two of them, alone. Heated mouths and hotter skin, quicksilver fire, burning through their bodies and their souls, so powerful and overwhelming they rarely made it to bed. Sex with Sherlock was always electric. After a case--it was incendiary.

As London sped passed the window, John could feel that familiar warmth building within him. He couldn’t wait to get home. He wanted Sherlock. Wanted him so bad he could taste it, could feel the ache thrumming through his body. A quick glance at his lover told him Sherlock felt the same way.

Why the hell couldn’t this damn cab go any faster!?

Apparently, Sherlock was of the same mind. It started with just a brush of his hand over John’s. Long, elegant fingers trailed up John’s arm, caressing along his jaw, his stubbled cheek. Slipping around the back of his neck and pulling him in for a kiss. A gentle kiss, a loving kiss, a kiss that quickly increased in passion and intensity as tongue and teeth were added.

John thought that perhaps this wasn’t the best place for their little display--what with the cab driver sitting just a couple of feet away--but then Sherlock slid his other hand between John’s legs and cupped his thickening cock and suddenly John couldn’t think anymore. He gave a start as those clever fingers unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans. He gave a squeak of surprise as Sherlock slithered off the seat and knelt on the floor before him.

“What are you doing?” he stage-whispered at the madman kneeling at his feet.

“Why do you insist on asking obvious questions?” Sherlock replied haughtily, pulling the folds of John’s jeans apart.

“Sherlock, we can’t!” John scolded, his voice tinged with hysteria. “This is. . .”

“Crazy? Insane? Illegal? All of the above?”

“Yes!” he hissed.

A dangerous gleam twinkled in Sherlock’s eye. “That’s what makes it so fun.”

“You have a rather perverse definition of ‘fun’,” John remarked, remembering back to their first case, and a very pretty, very dead lady in pink.

“You want me to stop?” When John hesitated for just a moment too long, a wolfish grin stretched Sherlock’s lips. “I didn’t think so.”

“But, what about. . .?” John motioned frantically to the driver.

“She’s busy driving,” Sherlock replied, dismissively. “Won’t even notice us.”

“Wait, what. . .SHE . .?” the hysteria was back in John’s voice.

“Would you prefer a male driver?”

“I. . .I. . .”

“C’mon, John. . .you know you want it,” Sherlock rumbled in that deep rich smoky-sweet voice that sapped John’s will and turned his knees to jelly.

John felt his shoulders slump in defeat. It was no use fighting when Sherlock broke out that voice. “I better not get another ASBO for this,” he muttered.

“Just relax--and trust me.” And with that, Sherlock bent his head and pressed his face to John’s crotch.

John gasped aloud as Sherlock’s tongue licked along the contours of his erection, tracing its heft and shape through the white cotton boxers. The area was soon wet, and John shivered as the clingy fabric was dragged up and down his sensitive flesh. While the feeling was unusual, it was far from unpleasant, and John moaned his approval.  
  
Just when John thought he couldn’t take much more teasing, Sherlock dipped his head lower, and began suckling. John shoved his fist in his mouth to stifle his lusty groan as first one swollen orb, then the other, was enveloped by Sherlock’s talented mouth, the thin material soon becoming damp and tacky. Warm breath, hot mouth--the outrageous, dangerous circumstances of this encounter--were all conspiring to make John harder than he could ever remember being.

Everything was quickly spiraling out of control--oh, who was John kidding? He was never IN control! But he knew if Sherlock didn’t change tactics soon, this was going to be a very short--and very messy--escapade. John’s hips pushed up involuntarily, communicating his need, trying to encourage Sherlock to start moving things along.  
  
Sherlock finally seemed to take the hint. One long-fingered hand carefully pulled John’s penis through the fly of his boxers, releasing it from its prison. John sighed with relief, which morphed into a sigh of pleasure as Sherlock bent forward and took the crown into his mouth, licking around and into the fleshy hood that still covered the hidden cockhead. The soft foreskin felt like warm silk slipping across Sherlock’s tongue as he peeled the glans bare and lovingly lapped at the exposed fat knob.

For long minutes, Sherlock was content just to play with the head of John’s cock, laving the sensitive skin with his rough, agile tongue, and enjoying the way he could make John squirm. Any qualms John had about the wisdom of what they were doing were squelched as his cock was suddenly sucked in, bathed in liquid heat.

Sherlock managed to suck down a couple of inches before John’s pants stopped him. Not one to bow to obstacles, he just concentrated on what he COULD reach, licking and sucking the top portion of John’s cock until the poor doctor thought he’d go mad. With a low moan of pained delight, John sank deeper into the leather seat, his head falling back against the headrest as he surrendered to Sherlock’s skillful ministrations.

With unfocused eyes, John happened to glance up, only to find dark brown eyes gazing back at him in the rear-view mirror--eyes sparkling with mischief and mirth. He felt his cheeks flush in embarrassment, knowing some strange woman was witnessing their passionate performance. And even though she couldn’t see exactly what was they were doing, there was no way to hide what was happening in the back seat; the loud, lewd slurping and unrestrained throaty moans were dead giveaways. But then Sherlock did that quirky, twirly thing with his tongue that made John see stars, and the last of his reservations flew out the window.

His hands, which had been clenched at his sides, came to rest on Sherlock’s head, blunt fingers tangling in those wild, soft curls--nudging him gently, pushing him down an extra inch, urging him on. Sherlock, however, had other ideas. He released John’s penis for a quick moment, just long enough to give him a saucy wink before slipping the elastic of the boxers down, and freeing the inflamed flesh completely.

With no barriers in place, Sherlock went to town. He wrapped his large hand around the rigid rod of desire, deftly stroking up and down, a steady, easy pace. Mouth soon joined hand, and Sherlock sighed happily as he licked John from tip to balls and back again, his nimble tongue tracing designs on the delicate skin, coaxing out more precum and swabbing it along the firm shaft.

Whimpering in need, John tugged urgently on Sherlock’s hair, trying to guide him back where John wanted--needed--him most. Sherlock took the hint, and with a final long lick he leaned forward, lips tight, and started to go down on John, slowly, methodically, enveloping him within moist heat. Inch by slow inch disappeared into his talented mouth until he held John deep in his throat; his hand, now free, reached low and cradled John’s weighty balls.

John made the mistake of looking down at Sherlock, watching through heavy-lidded eyes as perfect lips stretched around his engorged cock before pulling off and swallowing again. He tossed his head from side to side in abandon and groaned, “Oh, god. . .just. . .yes. . .just like that,” no longer caring where he was and who would hear him. The way Sherlock sucked John’s cock, the pleasured sounds he made, was almost indecent. But then, that was Sherlock Holmes, and John wouldn’t want him any other way.  
  
_‘Jesus, is there ANYTHING this man doesn’t do brilliantly?_’ John thought, in a daze.  
  
Concentrating completely on his task, Sherlock sucked harder, his head bobbing faster up and down between John’s legs, the obscene wet/slick sound echoing through the claustrophobic cab. The strong steady sucking rhythm soon had John coming undone. Sherlock could tell how close John was to climax--judging by the quickening of his breath and the increased tension of his muscles--and redoubled his efforts.

It as all too much.

John tried to give warning, but only got as far as sobbing, “Sherlock,” before his orgasm was wretched from deep within, his hips jerking upwards with each shot. Sherlock, kneeling at his feet like a supplicant, swallowed everything his John had to give until there was nothing left.

As John sat crumpled in his seat, trembling from his release, Sherlock carefully tucked him back in his jeans and zipped him up, before rising gracefully from his knees and sliding into John‘s lap. Straddling John’s legs, he leaned forward, nibbling at John’s earlobe and nuzzling John’s neck.

“That. . .was. . .amazing,” John panted, breathlessly.

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed, smugly. “I know.”

John turned his face, his lips brushing against Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock tilted his head, and soon they were kissing once more. Sherlock’s mouth was hot and sweet, tinged with a tangy flavor John recognized as himself and he moaned deliriously as Sherlock’s tongue glided lazily around his own.

His Sherlock. His beautiful, brilliant, mad-as-a-March-hare Sherlock.

John could feel the heat of Sherlock’s erection pressing into his stomach, even through the layers of cloth separating them. He took the opportunity to slide his left hand between them and began unzipping Sherlock’s expensive designer trousers, not caring a tinker’s cuss what the driver would think. Sherlock’s hand, however, reached down and grasped John’s, effectively stilling the motion. At John’s questioning look, he whispered darkly, “Save it. When we get back to the flat, I’m going to fuck you stupid.”

John moaned softly, desperately. “Too late,” he murmured, his words muffled as Sherlock’s lips claimed his once more.

* * * * * *

Five minutes later, the cab slowed and came to a stop. “You’re home, boys,” a cheerful feminine voice called out. With a final kiss, Sherlock crawled off and over John and exited the cab with his usual cat-like grace. As John stumbled out on shaky legs, Sherlock leaned in through the driver’s window to settle up. The driver, however, shook off Sherlock’s offer of payment. “It’s on the house, Sherlock.”

He smiled one of his rare, genuine smiles. “You always were good to me, Dee-dee.”

“Just returning the favour. You better not have left a mess back there,” she joked.

“Of course not,” he quipped. “First rule a successful criminal learns is leave no evidence behind.”

“I’d say to stay out of trouble,” Dee-dee shot a backward glance at John and smirked, “but I can see that’s not going to happen.“

“I’m trying.”

The young woman just shook her head and laughed. “Not succeeding.”

“Never said I was a saint. Got any news for me?”

Dee-dee reached up to her visor, and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. “Just ask for Dunston,” she instructed, handing it over.

“I owe you one.”

She smiled and tilted her head towards the backseat. “Oh, I think we’re square. See you around.”

“I’m sure you will,” Sherlock said with a wink, and in a dramatic spinning-swirl of well-cut wool, he slipped his arm around John’s waist and walked the stunned man to the front door of 221b Baker Street.

“You. . .you knew her,” John stammered incredulously, pointing at the departing car.

“Obvious,” Sherlock replied, removing the key from his coat pocket and unlocking the door. “Did you honestly think I’d do something like that in a strange cab?”

“What? How?”

“Dahlia’s part of my network,” he explained, sliding his coat off. “I used to look out for her when I was--well, during my rebellious phase.”

“When you were on the streets,” John clarified.

Sherlock nodded. “She was just a kid. Runaway. Bad family, lots of problems. But she was a clever girl. Lots of promise. I knew she’d pull herself together some day.”

“And when she did, you got her a job driving a cab?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s not glamorous, but it’s honest work. Gives her a steady income while she takes some classes. And in return, she helps me on occasion.”

“She spies for you,” John said knowingly, as he removed his jacket.

Sherlock‘s nose crinkled in distaste, and John hated himself for thinking how adorable that was. “MYCROFT relies on spies,” he sniffed, derisively. “I have an efficient information gathering system.”

“Whatever you call it--that was really nice of you.”

Sherlock fairly bristled at the notion. “As I’ve just explained, it was mutually beneficial.”

“Mmm. . .well, I can think of something else mutually beneficial,” John teased, his hand rubbing over Sherlock’s erection.

“If that was some sort of pick-up line, it’s no wonder you have problems pulling partners.”

“I believe you said something about fucking me stupid?” John grinned, flirting shamelessly.

“And as I recall, you said ‘too late‘, so where’s the challenge?”

“Sherlock. . .I’m only going to say this once. I’m going to go up those stairs, go into my room, strip naked, and crawl into bed. And if you’re haven’t joined me in the next minute, I’m going to start without you.”

A rakish leer. “I’d like to see you try,” he purred in honeyed mellifluous tones.

“Fifty-nine,” John said, backing up the stairs. “Fifty-eight,” another stair. “Fifty-sev. . .” He trailed off as Sherlock took a step forward, a predatory look on his handsome face. Turning quickly, a giggling John ran up the remaining stairs, a determined Sherlock following on his heels.

* * * * *

Hours later, as John lay in bed--sore, exhausted, and blissfully satiated--his arm curled around a slumbering Sherlock, only one thought ran through his mind. . .

_‘I wonder if we could borrow Mycroft‘s town car sometime.’_

THE END  



End file.
